


In Knots

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Ineffable Shibari [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Image, Crowley is a failure at rigging, Crowley turns some guy into a bug, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Post-Canon, Romance, Shibari, just the ramblings of an ineffable bdsm expert, leering assholes be leering, self-conscious Aziraphale needs love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: In his attempt to be a better rope artist, Crowley signs him and Aziraphale up for a Shibari workshop. But Aziraphale becomes a bit self-conscious when confronted by all of the fit humans in the room, including one man who won't take his eyes off Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Shibari [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674700
Comments: 22
Kudos: 155





	In Knots

**Author's Note:**

> This is the re-working of another piece I wrote. <3

“Nervous, angel?” Crowley asks, hooking his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder while they wait amid the rest of the class for their instructors to appear. 

“No.” Aziraphale answers so quickly his voice cracks, causing Crowley to snicker in his ear. Aziraphale pulls himself together, clears his throat. “Certainly not. Wh-hy do you ask?”

Crowley shrugs. “You seem nervous is all.” He winds his arms around Aziraphale’s middle, toying with a scrap of rope he’d been working with ever since his new fascination with knot tying began. The problem is he’s not very good at it, and no amount of online diagrams or XTube videos seem to help, hence this workshop they decided to sign up for. If Crowley is going to learn to rig, Aziraphale wants some assurance that his husband will be able to _un_ -rig him again. Without any sort of divine intervention, that is.

The paperwork on that would raise more than a few red flags, to say the least.

A heavy pair of scissors could serve quite well in releasing him, Aziraphale figures, so he may look into investing in a pair. As a back-up plan. Either way, from what Aziraphale can see beneath his view, Crowley is currently in very real danger of tying his own wrists together and trapping Aziraphale in the circle of his arms. 

“Come on, angel,” Crowley mutters as he picks loose the cuff he’s accidentally created. “Fess up. What’s on your mind?”

Aziraphale deliberates. He doesn’t want to put a storm cloud over their afternoon, but there’s no use lying. Crowley can see right through that, and besides, that’s not a good way to begin this particular venture.

With dishonesty.

“Maybe a little, my dear.” Aziraphale crosses his arms over his waist and grabs Crowley’s fidgeting hands. He tugs gently and Crowley obliges, ceasing practice and wrapping his arms tighter around Aziraphale’s tummy. “There’s more people here than I thought there would be.”

Crowley’s eyes sweep the room from behind dark lenses at the twenty or so couples gathered - talking, laughing, holding one another the way Crowley and Aziraphale are. He’s not sure why that would bother Aziraphale.

For the most part, they look about as clueless as the two of them.

He gives the room another sweep, trying this time to see the congregation through Aziraphale’s eyes. What is his angel seeing that Crowley isn’t? What could be bothering him? Once Crowley does this, he notices two things off the bat that could be the cause of Aziraphale’s nervous nettles.

First of all, there is quite a bit of anatomy on display.

In the fine print on the workshop’s website, at the bottom of the waiver, it mentioned wearing comfortable clothes that wouldn’t bind, pinch, or get wound up and potentially cut off blood circulation. Since that isn’t an issue for Aziraphale or Crowley, they basically wore toned down versions of their everyday clothes. Aziraphale traded his trousers for joggers and ditched his coat and waistcoat, but kept everything else. Crowley opted for joggers and a t-shirt, except where Aziraphale had dressed in shades of heather gray and parchment, Crowley’s entire ensemble is coal black, from the crew neck of his t-shirt to his socks.

But the website also made mention that leotards, unitards, or certain stages of undress were an acceptable alternative, and it seems that many of the models here took that advice to heart. Even among the couples whose ages more mirror the perceived age of Aziraphale and Crowley’s corporeal forms, skin-tight leotards are the uniform of the day.

And my oh my, are these humans _fit_.

The second potential thorn in Aziraphale’s side comes by way of another rigger stationed not too far from them, who keeps looking them over with the addition of a smirk for Aziraphale … and sultry, unashamed bedroom eyes for Crowley.

Crowley curses to himself. He should have read the room better for his angel.

“Good.” Crowley shifts their position, putting their backs to the man, and gives his angel a squeeze. “Then we’ll get lost in the crowd, and there should be no reason for anyone to pay us any mind,” he declares in a raised voice. More than likely the man with the lecherous grin doesn’t hear it for what it is.

A _warning_. 

“Welcome, friends! Welcome!” A man’s voice rises above the murmuring of the crowd, drawing eyes to him. Aziraphale’s, too, and he smiles, amused by the difference between the two humans entering.

The male half of the pair looks like he could be in his early sixties but only judging by his face. He stands roughly an inch or two over six feet; muscular, but in the sense that he must have spent his entire life working with his body, and not in a gym either. His tan, leathery skin seems to attest to that fact. His white teeth shine unnaturally when he opens his mouth but his sea blue eyes twinkle when he smiles.

His assistant - an elegantly petite woman whom Aziraphale wouldn’t dare try to pin an age to - is barely five foot if she’s an inch, wearing a red one-piece leotard that glows against her bronze skin. She has dark hair braided down her back with a red cord woven in. She doesn’t smile as wide as her counterpart, but she has a kind and friendly face.

Aziraphale decides that he likes the two of them immediately. They seem confident, genuine, and by their presence alone, he feels more relaxed.

They stop front and center of the room to address their audience, the man motioning with his hands to settle a tide of enthusiastic applause.

“Thank you all so much for joining us this afternoon! My name is Kevin, and my assistant for today will be Nonni. For those members of our kink community, Nonni is neither a Dominant nor a submissive. She’s just a flexible friend who has graciously offered to be my helper, so let’s show her some love before we begin.”

The room erupts again with a round of polite applause, and Nonni bows.

“As we stated on our website,” Kevin continues, “we want our participants to be as comfortable as possible, so feel free to remove clothing as you see fit, as long as you do not invade anyone else’s personal space. Respect is paramount here. Anyone showing disrespect to another participant will be asked to leave.”

Mumblings of agreement travel across the room. Crowley doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that the man with his gaze glued to Crowley’s back has just rolled his eyes, his smirk climbing higher up his cheeks. Aziraphale must sense it, too, since his shoulders instantly become tense.

“Try to relax,” Crowley says. “We’re here to have fun, remember?”

“Yes … _fun_ ,” Aziraphale says caustically.

“Here you go, guys,” Nonni says, handing Crowley a skein of blood red rope.

“Thank you.” Crowley takes it, unwinds it, holds it in both hands and yanks on it to test its strength. “Wow,” he says, comparing it to his practice piece, which pales, so he shoves it in his pocket, banishing it for the time being, “this is some nice rope.”

Aziraphale chuckles with discomfort as he examines the rope for himself, noting quietly that things are about to get a little less comfortable for him in a couple of minutes. But regardless of everything, he’s happy that the two of them are together. And even though he’s about to get trussed up like a Christmas goose and hung from the ceiling, he couldn’t be more pleased that they’re here.

 _Mmm_ , Aziraphale thinks, his mind wandering as his stomach grumbles. _Goose_ … 

“Alright!” Kevin claps his hands to regain the focus of the room. “Does everybody have their rope? Yes … yes … good! We’re going to start off with some simple gauntlets so you can get a feel for how this rope works. Just pick your favorite body part and have a go. I want to see what you can do. For my advanced students, you can skip ahead. Pick up wherever you left off last time.”

Aziraphale hears nervous giggling, anxious shuffling, and mutters of, “No, no, no, that’s not right,” as the beginner beginners attempt to manipulate the rope while simultaneously following along with Kevin as he ties Nonni’s arms behind her back. A rigger practicing solo in the far corner already has her legs tied together from ankles to knees. It took her less than a minute, and Aziraphale can’t help being impressed.

Such a stark contrast to his own rigger, Heaven help him, who’s having a difficult time deciding on which end of the rope to begin - the right end, or the left, as if such a thing exists.

“Let me know if anything smarts,” Crowley says, rounding behind Aziraphale to practice the same technique that Kevin is showing on Nonni.

“Yes, my dear.” Aziraphale sighs. Last time they tried a gauntlet similar to this one, Crowley shattered his glasses. Aziraphale doesn’t know how he managed it, but he has suspicions. But for the sake of his husband’s ego, he hasn’t explicitly asked.

As soon as Crowley gets the rope around Aziraphale’s wrists, he focuses on trying to recreate the gauntlet the way Kevin demonstrates. But the rope Crowley is using gets hopelessly tangled in the rumples of Aziraphale’s shirt. After a third attempt, Crowley backs away a step. He runs a hand through his hair, considering his options. They’d talked about this beforehand, discussed the level of nudity they were comfortable with. Crowley would be fine in his underwear whereas Aziraphale would rather not remove a single stitch of clothes. Crowley respects that. He’s not going to negotiate with him.

He’s trying to work around it.

“You do realize you could miracle the ropes into the form you want,” Aziraphale whispers.

“True. But that’s cheating.”

“Look who’s talking!” Aziraphale teases while trying to stamp down the moths wrecking havoc in his stomach. “Tell me, Crowley - how many times have you been banned from Madrid? Was it over a hundred times? Over two hundred?”

“I like working with my hands,” Crowley says, avoiding the question and attacking his wonky knots, trying to reassemble them. “I like the intimacy of tying them myself.” Aziraphale feels Crowley’s forehead drop to his shoulder. “I like touching you, angel,” he whispers against the curve of his husband’s neck. “I cherish being allowed to.”

Those words linger in the air around them, refusing to bleed away while Crowley starts unbuttoning the cuffs of Aziraphale’s sleeves and rolls them up his forearms - forearms so defined they make Crowley salivate. Since this is the source of his trouble, Crowley stops when he reaches Aziraphale’s elbows and goes no further.

While Crowley works, Aziraphale begins to notice that there’s a great deal more skin exposed overall in the room now. A handful of participants have stripped down to their undergarments. A brave female couple in the back row have even gone topless.

Aziraphale doesn’t look long. He doesn’t want to be accused of staring. But a cursory glance tells him that there is no shortage of striking figures present. Maybe he would have been more comfortable if he’d presented as a woman. Then people might be moreforgiving of his pudgy appearance. Not that he assumes he’s being judged. Only one man has really looked their way, but that’s enough. Aziraphale was grateful when Crowley turned their backs to him. But as Aziraphale’s eyes dart from side to side, he sees that the man has relocated, moving himself and his model back into their eyeline, his model in a modified child’s pose as he ties her arms behind her back.

And now he’s taken his shirt off.

Crowley’s head snaps up as Aziraphale’s eyes drift down.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks, giving Aziraphale his full attention when he sees the defeated expression on his face.

“Nothing, my dear. It’s just that the humans here are so … uh _… attractive_.”

“I haven’t noticed,” Crowley says, giving his angel a sly wink.

“Well, I may have.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you have the most favorable body here,” Crowley says, voice lowered to a growl.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale sounds flattered, yet a hair unconvinced. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

“But …?” Crowley prompts, knowing that there’s a _but_ in there somewhere.

“I … I don’t like them staring. Or judging.” 

“No one’s judging,” Crowley says, a finger to his temple as he uses his power to survey the room. 

“ _He’s_ judging.” Aziraphale motions to the shirtless man to their right with only the slightest of nods.

“ _He_ doesn’t matter, a’right?” Crowley curls his lip at the man whose leering is about to ruin the first afternoon they’ve spent doing something other than eat out or drink at Aziraphale’s bookshop. “The only two who matter here are you and me.” He catches Aziraphale’s eyes so his angel’s gaze won’t wander. “Honestly, should their opinion matter to you? They’re only mortals.”

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale answers guiltily, because whether or not it should, the answer is it does. Being judged has been a huge part of Aziraphale’s existence.

And Aziraphale has been around a while.

Crowley takes a step towards Aziraphale, narrowing his angel’s world to just the two of them, blocking out everyone else.

“Don’t let asshats alter the way you feel - human, demon, or angel. Don’t let them ruin your fun. Don’t give them that power. This workshop? It’s a part of _our_ journey. Yours and mine. We’re taking it together. These people?” Crowley gestures to the room, the people in it suddenly still as statues - standing, posing, suspended without moving a muscle or taking a breath. “They don’t even exist in our world,” Crowley whispers, hand poised to restart time, but only when Aziraphale gives him the go ahead. “Do you understand?”

Aziraphale gives his husband a small, trembly smile. “Yes, my love. I do.”

“Good. Very good. Brilliant.” Crowley snaps his fingers, letting reality resume even though he knows Aziraphale isn’t quite telling the truth. But he can’t keep the advanced half of the class suspended indefinitely. _This isn’t 1382,_ he thinks with a shudder. “Now, let’s get you tied up.”

Crowley peeks over his shoulder to find that same infuriating man staring openly now and neglecting his own model, as if watching Crowley tie Aziraphale is exactly what he spent close to a hundred pounds for. Crowley snaps his fingers, so offhandedly that anyone who didn’t know him better wouldn’t have deemed it significant.

A second later, the man in question has gone, disappeared into thin air … and the biggest stink bug Aziraphale has ever seen has taken his place. His model looks over when she feels the rope drop. She sees him scurrying towards her and screams, leaping to her feet and racing out of the room, shaking as she goes as if there were a dozen of him instead of just one and crawling all over her body.

Aziraphale gasps. “Crowley!” he scolds, though it’s less than severe with a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t _Crowley_ me, angel. It’ll wear off in an hour. Provided no one steps on him, he’ll be fine.” Crowley grins, returning to his knots. “It’s his own damned fault. If he’s going to be a nuisance, he may as well look the part.”


End file.
